


Souls

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Final Problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Mycroft in the aftermath. Healing. Maybe some mystrade if it fits in.The first chapter is a bit of Anthea and a bit of Lady Smallwood. I intend to let it grow--but if no one is all that interested it IS freestanding and I'll just adjust the various descriptors.





	1. Chapter 1

In the aftermath Mycroft often lost track of time, saved only by Anthea's diligence. She kept track of his schedule, made appropriate decisions about what actually needed his attention and what was just a panic attack on the part of someone who ought not to need hand-holding, and made sure he was briefed sufficiently to later understand why she had made those choices. It didn't make him feel better--if anything it added to the deep depression gathering like smog under a temperature inversion, thicker and darker and harder and harder to breathe. He'd spent his life trying to be part of the solutions, not part of the problems--and here he was, at the bitter end of that trail, the proximate cause of five years of catastrophe and more years of familial pain, culminating in the nightmare of Eurus' idea of a nice game to play with her brothers. Five dead. John and Sherlock almost dead. The most sensitive containment area in the nation turned into Eurus' own little empire for years, and God alone knew what other cascades of catastrophe she might have left ready to be set off, like the first domino in chain. All thanks to him.

And now Anthea having to mind him like an infant, because he could barely think through the smog, and never about "his life." He could think about North Korea, and about the new president in the United States, and about Brexit. Ask him whether he could manage lunch tomorrow and he was at an utter loss. Ask him to take care of himself, and he forgot to get toothpaste on the way home...and watched old movies without seeing them, going to sleep after hours that were counted off in spent cigarettes. 

It was all he could to do keep moving forward. Get up. Go in to work. Go home. Get up.

"You should talk to someone, sir," Anthea said, firmly. 

"A psychiatrist?" He knew he said it with sarcasm so sharp you could cut tough steak with it, but, then...what good had psychiatrists ever done anyone he knew? He and Eurus and Sherlock were all the kind of smart that gets hard to treat, especially when the resistance mounts high and the patient starts to deflect. As for people like John Watson? Well. Enough said, really. "I don't need a psychiatrist."

"I didn't say you did, sir." Her eyes were cool, direct, dispassionate. "Conversation, sir. The human thing. You're letting it slide."

"When have I ever not?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure that's the point. You were managing, before. You're not, now. Talk to someone."

"I'm talking to you." What once would have had a snap, a sting, the quick feel of banter, came out leaden and tired.

"It isn't helping."

"You or me?"

"Sir..."

He shook his head. "I have no one to talk to." Not even Sherlock, who'd retreated into the little, warm goldfish bowl of life lived between John Watson's townhouse flat and Baker Street, between Rosie Watson and renovations. Sherlock who had gone to Sherrinford with his violin and played...

Tears stung, and he took a breath, fighting them down. "I'll take your suggestion under consideration," he said, and turned quickly back into his office, though he'd meant to go home for the day. He needed the retreat. He needed...peace.

The office wasn't sufficient. It was too big. Too exposed. He slid aside the panel that hid the secret room with the cot, the spare set of clothing, the hidden supply of ginger nuts and hobnobs, the electric kettle, the box of tea, and the bottle of scotch for when it was really bad. His survival shelter--the place that kept him alive when he was finessing the world out of Armageddon. He took his phone out of his pocket, and texted Anthea.

"Working late. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

There was no response. He tried to convince himself he was just as glad. After all, it wasn't as though he had an emergency on his hands. Indeed, the entire government seemed to be holding its breath and bending over backward to avoid handing him any of the really bad stuff.

He eased the door of the crash room shut, shot the locks home, then turned and leaned back against the smooth wood. He closed his eyes. He held himself, flashing back on unhappy memories of the days when his arms had been shorter, fatter, when he'd hug himself in bed at night and feel the soft rolls of fat muffling the shape of his upper arms. He banished the memories: they came with too much else attached. Lying in the wrong bed, in the wrong house, with Eurus gone but still, somehow, terrifying, and Uncle Rudy miles away in London, leaving him to "take care of the others," and not knowing how. Sherlock still woke screaming, though he remembered less and less any of the real events. Mummy cried at night, and no one could go near her or she veered into battle mode, finding something, anything to fight about rather than get them all entangled in her tears. Father went for walks. Long walks in the dark night of the new countryside where nothing felt like home.

No. He was not going to dwell on those days. He stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, then put his pocket watch on the slim shelf that rimmed the room, barely wider than his hand but big enough to hold an amazing array of tea cups, biscuit packets, and tablets. He kicked off his shoes. Unbuckled his belt and removed his trousers. His shirt. He hesitated, then took off his pants and vest, too, then opened the little accordion-pleat door that let him into a shower so small there was barely room to wash himself...just enough with only inches to spare. He dried himself with one of the towels stored under the cot, then slipped between the covers onto the thin mattress. The cotton sheets were cold and coarse, but soothing. He reached up high, flipped off the lights of the room, and utter darkness dropped. He closed his eyes and dragged sleep around him like a comforter, forcing his mind to rest.

He had no idea what time it was when he woke again. He crawled back out of the sheets and blankets and groped his way gingerly to the hooks that held his clothes. Feeling his way through pockets, he found his phone and turned it on, looking first at the time.

Only eight-thirteen, he thought--then checked a second time to be sure it was eight pm, not eight in the morning. Then checked yet again, to be sure it was the same day. Then he reckoned up the time he'd been asleep. Barely two hours, if that. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the glowing little screen.

He couldn't call Mummy and Father. He knew after a lifetime of "learning experiences" that they would try their best, and he would try his best, and between them the outcome would be the dog's dinner--total bollocks. 

He might call the new Sherlock. The man who dared defend Mycroft from Mummy--who said he had done his best. Not that Mummy found that any sort of worthwhile praise. The man who played duets with Eurus...

Or he could not-call, staying far away from the precious island of light and life Sherlock and John were building for themselves: a little place to heal, and mourn, and recover. Better to leave them to their own salvation...it wasn't an area Mycroft had any talent for, after all. And his pride resisted calling to Sherlock for help after all this.

There were only two other numbers he might consider dialing. One he yearned to call...and dared not. Not in the state he was in, and never at all if he was in any better state. Lestrade was too dangerous. He'd cling to him, longing for the myth of the magic penis that would make everything good and right...a myth he knew perfectly well was more likely to prove a direct route to disaster.

That left the second...

He sighed, and punched in the numbers, waiting as the phone on the other end rang, wondering if it would be heard--or was stored away where it couldn't interrupt a quiet night spent at home. 

On the fifth ring, it clicked alive. "Hello?"

"Lady Smallwood...Mycroft Holmes calling."

He heard a quick in-draw of breath. "There's nothing wrong--no. No, I'm sorry. How foolish of me. This is my private number. Of course you're not calling me to battle...."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of 'battle'," he said, only too aware of his need--his desperation. "I--you said..."

Her voice cut in, warm and gentle. "I told you to call if you wanted to have a drink with me. I'm going to assume you do...and I'm delighted. We can go out--but if you'd like, I've good liquor here. Woody loved the finer things, and as miserable as this past year has been, drink is not one of my primary weaknesses. Have you had dinner?"

He hesitated, then said, "No. No, I'm afraid not."

"That's fine. I've got leftover beef and mushroom stew here, and some decent bread. Will that suit you?"

The thought set his stomach rumbling and his body whining about low blood sugar. "I'd be grateful," he said, meaning every word.

"Then call up a car and come around," she said. "Not too fast, though--I've got to change into day clothes."

"Don't bother," he said, reflexively--then felt his face catch fire in the dark room. "I mean--I won't be offended. I didn't mean..."

"You poor boy," she said, cheerfully. "I'm not offended. At worst, amused, dear. At best mildly flattered you think I might still be up to it, even if it wasn't on your agenda. In either case, tonight it's about good drink and good conversation. I'll see you when you get here." And hung up.

He stared at the residual glow, shivering. He couldn't back out now. He called his driver, stood and dressed in the dark, and hurried down to the lobby with his heart a mire of chaos, and a tiny foxfire flame of hope to see him safe to solid ground.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Smallwood; Lestrade

When Mycroft arrived, clutching his umbrella on one hand with the other fisted deep in his coat pocket, he was met not by Lady Smallwood's butler, but by the lady herself, dressed in a fluffy floral robe with matching slippers that would have done Mummy proud. Mummy, however, would have blanketed her real concern for him in a minimum of five or six cutting comments suggesting how he could have improved his overall performance--called earlier, taken better care of himself in the meantime, brought something to add to the meal, worn a warmer coat--a nice fiber-fill arctic parka, for example--all in her scolding voice. He remembered. "I love you," she'd say, in deep frustration. "Why do you make this so hard?" And he'd sit silent, trying to struggle his way through the annoyance and scolding to the love, and finding it rough going. Lady S., though, said in a mock whisper, "I sent poor Ingraham to bed. He was Woody's father's butler, which should make all clear. Come in, dear, come in, and follow me. Kitchens are below stairs, but then it's a Georgian house. No amount of modernization is ever going to bring it upstairs. "

She led him through the dim, dark rooms of the ground floor to the subbasement, which would once have been the preserve of the servants. The kitchen was large, and warm, and appeared to have last undergone major change in the thirties. There was a great beast of an AGA radiating heat from its central location, with stew bubbling in a substantial pan and bread sliced. Arranged on the worn, scarred kitchen table were bowls, spoons, knives, butter, honey, a mug of tea, a large tumbler of clear water--and a bottle of Talisker old enough to legally drink itself. Mycroft generally preferred Laphroaig, but he was not about to turn his nose up at a good Talisker... He felt something unknot beneath his sternum, and sighed softly.

It didn't go unnoticed by Lady Smallwood, whose quick eyes shot his way, evaluating him. Fortunately, she smiled, recognizing contentment rather than thinking she'd disappointed him. She smiled and patted the back of a sturdy slat-backed kitchen chair, as worn as the table. "Sit. I'll serve us. Have a bit of tea while you wait."

He did, feeling the heat flow from mouth to throat to belly, further easing his tension. He looked at his hands, curled lovingly around the coarse china of the mug. "This is wonderful. Thank you."

"You're welcome. You should have called long since. Even before that ungodly mess with your sister."

"I should," he conceded, then added with a humility he was willing to offer at least in part because she did not seem to demand it, "You might have seen the flaws in my administration of Sherrinford where I did not."

"I doubt it," she said, almost merrily. "It was a frightful mess, and the mess goes back to old Rudy's era. Too little oversight of the Governor, among other things. With all those precious, unique fruitcakes, the temptation to poke and prod would have been intolerable. But it seemed to be working, so we all let sleeping mental cases lie." She walked over with two bowls of stew, and settled herself at the head of the table, at right angles to Mycroft, handing him his own bowl. "There. Cook is of a considerably more modern vintage than Ingraham, and she knows her way around a kitchen. That should revive you a bit." And without saying more she leaned over her own meal with obvious pleasure, demanding nothing more of him than that he enjoy his meal and her silent companionship.

So simple. So painless. He had expected at least some pain. He'd failed so desperately...only to have her treat it as a systemic issue, not his own to any great degree.

He knew, to his shame, that the stew and bread went down better with her acceptance. 

She buttered a slab of good homemade bread, and then slathered on honey--then tore the slice in half and handed it to him without comment.

Without comment he permitted himself the luxury of honey...eyes stinging as he remembered days when he'd taken pleasures like honey on his bread and sugar in his tea as an unquestioned, joyful right. They no longer were, or could be...but he could accept the rare treat, so sweet on his tongue. It was good. So very good. Here he felt safe, to his surprise, though he'd known Lady Alicia for years, going on decades. Thanks to the nature of top security work, he had nothing of size that might qualify as a "secret" from her. Barring a very few details not required of his paperwork to obtain his level of clearance. Eurus; Sherrinford; the visit of Moriarty that fateful Christmas; all Sherlock's vagaries; the attack by Moriarty and Irene Adler; the employment of Adler since that time...in so many ways his secrets were already also her secrets.

And here he sat, by her own invitation, eating stew and relaxing in her basement kitchen. 

"Maybe I should become your butler, when Ingraham retires," he said, thinking longingly of that simple life, worrying about the family silver and the state of the wainscoting. 

"Ingraham shall never retire--he will pass silently from living butler to honored family haunt," she said, firmly. "But if you can deal with a disapproving ghost watching your break-in period, I would consider you come the day. Not that I would not prefer to keep you where you are." 

He looked uneasily down at the now-empty bowl. "That is quite gracious, my lady."

"Hardly," she said. "Now, tell me, what are you up to? Anthea suggests everyone from your rapscallion brother to that elegant embedded officer we have over in the MET are worried about you--and she is, too. Are you taking care of yourself?"

He made a face, but met her eyes. "I called you."

"So you did." She sounded smug and pleased. "So nice having at least the occasional colleague with sense and judgment."

"You can say that after..."

"Mycroft, if you make me say this one more time tonight, I shall send you off with a flea in your ear. You are not expected to be so far above mere human capability as to never make mistakes, especially in areas where multiple people with similar oversight missed the issue. You were lied to by your subordinates...massively lied to. And sensitive as the issue of Eurus proved to be, there was no reason to think she was anything but a minor concern in comparison with the burden of your work. She was not top priority. Even Sherlock is seldom top priority. You failed for reasons no one of sense can consider a matter of dire personal failure, and if you did--we all did. I believe that with all my heart and soul, and I have the advantage of decades looking over the same reports and records you had. I understand the shock and pain you feel now, and I want you to respect that and deal with it...but not because it's evidence of your failure, but of your humanity."

He knew he was blushing, now, and shocked and uncertain. No one--no one in decades, perhaps in a lifetime, had defined their notion of accountability quite that way. 

"I will...think about it, Lady Alicia."

"I rather like 'Lady S.'  Or just 'Alicia.'"

He hesitated, then nodded. 

"And you?" she continued, raising her brows humorously, as though flirting with an infant like Rosie Watson. 

He blinked, frowned in confusion, and said, "And I what?"

She laughed, then said softly, "Never mind. Just know you're welcome here."

He nodded, still bewildered, though contented. "I...thank you. For having me over. It wasn't... It was..." He flushed and turned away from her, muttering, "I used to think only Sherlock had danger nights."

"Welcome to the human race," she said. "If you had made it to my age without them it would have suggested you didn't live a life at all, just hovered in the entryway making excuses."

He gave a small shout of laughter, then admitted, "Perhaps. But so many things are at odds with an orderly life and a high security rating. And with Eurus and Sherlock taking up so many of my optional debit points, I feel an obligation to evade temptation."

"Is that why you haven't had a pub night with that lovely DCI, then..." Her voice was speculative, her eyes bright. "That's a pity. You need at least a few sins of your own on your write-up, Mike."

He almost snapped at her, as he would at Mummy. But it didn't seem the same. Lady S. had not been the one to christen him "Mycroft," not was she the one who'd switched over to Sherlock's preferred name (rather than "Billy") the moment he'd suggested it, while struggling against Mycroft's for decades. He found he could not only let it pass--but take comfort in it. "I'm afraid DCI Lestrade is substantially too high-risk for my well-being," he admitted, knowing perfectly well she knew his orientation. Again, there was nothing in his files she had not had access to for years.

"So--he's your type," she murmured. "I always wondered. I appreciate your taste...but not your cowardice. Even if all he wants is a sound working relationship like Anthea, he's a charming fellow. No point making professional relations into a penance."

He shook his head, wondering why he trusted her--why he felt so secure and contented. After the past weeks, in particular, it was a shocking, confusing contrast. 

"Again--I can't risk it. Not now, anyway. I'm fairly sure my brother set him on me, much as I have set him on my brother any time this past ten years--to look out for me. To care for me when Sherlock can't. If he'd picked someone like that little Hooper girl it would have been safe. DCI Lestrade is..." He shivered, and could go no farther. 

"Afraid you'd succumb?"

"For all the wrong reasons, with catastrophic results."

"He's not straight, you know."

"Yes. Bi. Certainly more than bi-curious. That does not improve things."

"You're an abstinent monk...and I don't say that as a good thing."

"Perhaps not. But it's a safer thing than the alternative."

She sighed and nodded, and let her hand slide out until it lay near his. "Very well, Mike. Your life is yours to determine. But I'd appreciate it if, at least for now, you...continued to recall my phone number."

"For my own good?" As welcome as her hospitality was, he didn't want to be a burden--couldn't bear to be a burden.

She shook her head, a short, sharp gesture that sent her simple braid bouncing on her shoulder. "God. Hardly." She reached for the scotch for the first time, poured herself a small tumbler, then glanced at him. He nodded and she filled his, pushing the glass across the table to him. She raised the glass, waiting for him to follow suit. When he did, she said, in the tough, dragon-lady voice he knew from her official role, "To absent loved ones." She closed her eyes and shot the tumbler back, elegance and rough rage blending into something beautiful and painful.

Her husband, he thought, with shock. Her husband, dead not yet a year. Woody...

He raised his own glass and echoed, far more gently, "To absent loved ones."

She was crying, he thought, suddenly helpless. Not loud. Not sobs. Just a catch of breath and the slow seep of  tears from tight-closed eyelids, soaking her lashes and staggering across cheeks high and refined, but tracked with the first crinkle of age.

She had loved him, then. It had always been an unspoken question among the intelligence agencies. She was brilliant, strong, decisive, worthy of her rank, as well as her title. Woody? An amiable jackass, by any fair assessment. A sweet man, and one about whom Mycroft knew no deep evil. It even seemed possible the man truly had not realized the girl he'd attempted to seduce by letter had been underage. But, my God, an idiot! Some people had long suspected Lady Smallwood had married him for his title, doubling down on the ladyship she carried by birthright. Others thought she was the sort of domineering woman who needed an idiot to order around and keep in line. Others thought it might be a youthful infatuation with consequences she wouldn't renounce for reasons of pride and of career security. He'd left the entire thing as a question mark in his own mind, admitting to himself that Woody--Lord Andrew Smallwood--had been brawny and handsome and sweet-tempered and affectionate, with a better than average sense of humor, and no commonsense whatsoever. Even when she had hired Sherlock to deal with Magnussen, though, Mycroft had been unsure of her motives. The scandal, after all, would tar her no less than Woody, unfair though that might seem...

Now he knew. She had loved him. 

A pet? A goldfish? Whatever. She appeared to mourn him as deeply as John and Sherlock now mourned the woman known as Mary Morston--who had chosen to die as Mary Watson. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

She nodded, poured them both another round, then sat sipping hers. But her free hand crept out until it found his, and she gripped his fingers tight.

He found himself caressing her knuckles, thumb smoothing the soft, creased skin.

"It's all right," he said, echoing long nights spent with Sherlock in the aftermath of Victor Trevor's disappearance. Murder. "It's all right. I'm here. You can hold on to me..."

And she did, saying as quietly, "I know, dear. We both can."

When he left later that night, it was with a feeling of unexpected calm, and the certain knowledge that he would be welcome again...and that he would be able to come back without guilt. He wasn't alone in his need, or his pain.

He could accept that. There was a mutual balance there that eased his fear.

He had his driver take him to the flat on Pall Mall, where he picked up a fresh suit for the next day, and toiletries, then went back to the office, letting himself back into the crash room. There in the dark, in a room so small as to be a cocoon, with the cool cotton sheets wrapped close, and the wool blanket heavy over him, he smiled, thinking through the entire evening.

Sometimes, he thought, it was all right to choose safety--to comfort yourself and accept comfort. Smart Lady Smallwood, to seek her own comfort, and to find a way to offer him his own.

For the first time in weeks, he slept deep, woke late, and rose relaxed.

 

It was a week later that DCI Lestrade came calling, and the visit sent him scurrying back to Lady S. in white-hot panic.

"No, sunshine," the man had told him with a cocky grin, as they drank coffee from a food truck. "Not here to make Andy-pants happy by playing amateur shrink."

"Then what?" The visit, complete with invitation to go to the van, was too suspicious to be taken at face value.

Lestrade looked at him and grinned, evil and mischievous and lit with excitement. "I figured I had two basic choices...and if I tried to be shrink I'd just end up trying to seduce you anyway," he said. "And that never ends well. So I decided the best route was to let other people play shrink and best buddy and maybe even brother--god help us--and I'm just going to get to the seducing part from the very start, and keep the motives nice and clear."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Until Lestrade said those words, Mycroft's head was entirely elsewhere, caught between the hazy, smoky gloom of depression and the sour suspicion that the other man had been suborned by the "powers of light," to rescue him from his own despair--a kindly thought, but not a welcome one. He did not want to be Lestrade's charity case, or his patient (unless in a far more lively game of doctor than was usually meant), nor did he appreciate knowing his associates were making a project of him.

He'd stood beside the food truck with his coat tight around him and his scarf wrapped well around his long neck, and accepted his cup of tea from Lestrade. The silence descended as they both drank, with little to hear but the street sounds of the morning, and the wings of pigeons.

"Nice day, for February," Lestrade said, and smiled. "You haven't had to break out your brolly yet."

"No indeed," Mycroft agreed. "As well. It's more pleasant this way." Then he flushed a bit for having conceded that he took pleasure in the meeting, when he remained so deeply unsure what the point even was. After all, Eurus was contained, Sherlock and John were quite occupied with caring for young Rosamund and restoring Baker Street, and he was aware of no activities that demanded the combined forces of his own office and Lestrade's. He decided to sweep the decks immediately, hoping that once the question was asked and answered they might at least enjoy a short time gossiping about the baby and Baker Street and nothing more painful.

"You aren't here to serve as psychiatric assistance, are you? Anthea has been concerned to the point of being aggressive, and Sherlock, for a miracle, has decided it's his turn to worry about me. They haven't set you on my trail, have they?"

"No, sunshine. Not here to make Andy-pants happy by playing amateur shrink." There was a lively sparkle in the man's eyes that sent goosebumps up Mycroft's arms--to his embarrassment.

"Then what?"

Lestrade studied him and grinned, eyes downright provocative. "I figured I had two basic choices...and if I tried to be shrink I'd just end up trying to seduce you anyway," he said. "And that never ends well. So I decided the best route was to let other people play shrink and best buddy and maybe even brother--god help us--and I'm just going to get to the seducing part from the very start, and keep the motives nice and clear."

Mycroft had a long history of self-control. If he'd been inclined he could have put up a sign saying, "seventeen years, five months, six weeks and three days since spewing tea in shocked amazement." At least until that moment...

He managed not to get much on his coat, but quickly dabbed at it with the inadequate little paper napkin anyway. "What?"

Lestrade couldn't answer for laughing, though he weakly offered his own napkin to help with the cleanup. Other than that, though, it was all chuckles and soft wails...

"It isn't funny," Mycroft snapped, still mopping...mopping too much. The damp paper dissolved into tiny white pills that instantly bonded with the dark charcoal boiled wool of his coat. He swore, stuffed the napkins in his pocket, then tried to strip off a glove, remaining tea in one hand, teeth struggling to get a grip on soft black leather.

"Fuck me, that's obscene. Here..." Lestrade took his hand and removed his glove--slowly. Too damned slowly, and with open sensuality, grazing the inside of Mycroft's wrist with one finger before drawing off the soft lambskin. "Yeah, yeah. Moving too fast, but really, how could I resist?" He dimpled, and sent Mycroft a dazzling smile.

Mycroft muttered under his breath, and picked off the little white pills. It still needed to be dealt with--definitely in need of a wire brush, and maybe even a razor to remove all the little bits of fiber that wanted to become permanently part of the wool felt... "That was outrageous. And you don't mean it. You can't..." he ran short of words, and scowled at Lestrade, trapped between bewilderment, humiliation, and desire. "I could report you for sexual harassment, you know."

"You'd have to make a better case than giving you an honest answer to your own question." He looked not a bit abashed.

Glowering pointedly, Mycroft snatched back the glove--only to realize he was even less set to put it back on than he'd been to remove it. He stuffed in into his pocket, considered removing the other glove, realized he was still unable without help, and gave up. If he had to look like some depraved rock star, then that's what he'd do.

"You don't mean it," he said instead, then took a fast gulp of tea, swallowing before Lestrade could say more.

"And if I do?"

"Impossible. I'm a terrible choice."

"Why?"

Mycroft huffed. "Because I'm the Iceman? Because I'm depressed enough lately that my own PA and brother tried to get you to play psychiatrist for me? Because we're both old enough to know better? Because I'm hardly anyone's idea of an attractive available target?" He sniffed. "Really. You've known me years..."

Lestrade seemed to give it all consideration, then smiled, eyelids drooping heavily, breath slowing and deepening. "Time enough to make a real choice, yeah."

"Change the subject." The number of times Mycroft had used similar words to Sherlock--they came out smooth and steady, until the end, when his breath hitched. He ignored it. "How is the Baker Street apartment coming along?"

"Slowly. But there was a lot less damage than you'd expect. Lucky you. I guess she wanted all of you out alive no matter what. The charge was light enough to spare you even if you had an off day."

Mycroft grunted. "Do they need any financial help?"

"Doesn't that come under the heading of not putting tempting sums of money in Sherlock's hands?"

"Is he using?"

"No. Too many other responsibilities. He's a family man now, even if his family is a bit peculiar." Lestrade went on to describe several small debacles in the clean-up process, one that included Mrs. Hudson landing on her bum in a pile of debris that soothed Mycroft's heart--though he knew it was petty of him, he was still both hurt by and annoyed with Sherlock and John's faithful landlady. He added a very gentle broad assessment of Sherlock's efforts to reestablish his friendship with Molly Hooper. "She's got a big heart...and, well. She's a bit of a sucker," he finished up. "She'll forgive him soon enough."

"That's good. I sent her my apologies earlier, with flowers and chocolates," Mycroft said. "It seemed only right to take responsibility for the situation."

Lestrade huffed. "Don't start me, Mycroft. I know you're a guilt-sponge, but just don't. This one goes back and back all the way to your father leaving off the condom the one day he should have worn it. Guilt enough for everyone, and from what I can see your Uncle Rudy deserves the lion's share."

"But I--"

He got no further. Lestrade shook his head and gave a deep, bearlike growl. "No. Not havin' it, Mike."

"My name is Mycroft...not Mike."

"Consider it a pet name," Lestrade said, once again sparkling far too...too...

Too incandescently, as luminous and glowing as young Eurus' intellect had been. Radiant.

Oh, dear.

Mycroft said no more, babbled something about having to be off for the office, and fled...direct to Lady Smallwood's office, where he said, "Lunch. Take me to lunch," and shivered until she called her driver, her PA, and put on a gleaming white coat, leading him out like a dim child...

"What happened, Mike," she asked, once they were in the car.

"He propositioned me!" The shock of it was not gone even now.

She cocked her head like a puzzled parrot. "Who propositioned you?"

"DI...DCI Lestrade!" He knew he sounded like a disapproving child objecting that the big people were kissing...but... He blinked. "I spat my tea all over," he added, more forlornly.

She gave a gasp and leaned back against the smooth leather upholstery of the car seat. "He...you..." He realized she was struggling not to laugh. He could only admire her control when, at last, she said, gently, "Oh, dear. That must have been disconcerting."

He looked for words, and was reduced to the most juvenile level. Gloomily he said, "Gobsmacked."

This time a small giggle escaped before she could cut it off. "Oh, dear."

He nodded. "I told him I could accuse him of harassment."

"I think he has to work at it a good deal harder," she said. "You're not strictly speaking in the same command chains. Er...fraternizing would not be considered a major breach of regulation. He'd have to make a bit more dramatic nuisance of himself before you could fall back on harassment."

"He took my glove off. And..." Mycroft blushed, remembering Lestrade's bare fingers on the skin inside his wrist, and easing the glove over his palms, his fingers...

He sighed.

Lady S. giggled yet again. "He sounds fairly good at the game," she observed, clearly amused.

"He was outrageous."

"You don't sound that outraged."

"It's ridiculous. I'm...he's... He can't mean it."

"I'd leave that question to him. Did you like it?"

He blushed and refused to answer. Instead he said, "I thought he was there to play head-doctor. Sherlock and Anthea and all that lot worrying."

"But?"

"He said they'd tried to send him but he'd decided to seduce me instead--that it kept the motives clear."

"Sensible observation."

"It's ludicrous."

"If you say so, dear. Here we are--the Ledbury," she said, and slipped like silk out of the elegant car and out onto the pavement. For the next hour she poured good wine for him, and watched as he ate up far more fine French cooking than he later felt he should have allowed himself. Only the knowledge that he'd lost fifteen pounds over the weeks of despair comforted him as he nibbled and pecked and noshed his way back into something resembling his usual calm. All the while she smiled and chatted and considered him with fond eyes, much as Mummy's when she was pampering Sherlock.

For the first time he realized how lovely it was to be spoiled quite so flagrantly. As he sipped his coffee and finished a wedge of fine Stilton from the trolley, he said, "You're going to be very bad for my waistline if I'm not careful. But...thank you." He ducked his face. "If I can do anything in return?"

She smiled. "You will, I'm sure, should I need it. But not today. Today you should go back to work and reassure that nice PA of yours that you're fine. That will do more than anything to keep people from sending you minders. Now--cheese is lovely, but I want a tot of that chestnut sponge they're offering."

When they arrived back at work, he said while riding up on the lift, "About Lestrade..."

She smiled. "Let courting men court, my dear...wait and see where he takes it."

"But I'm hardly a proper choice."

"That's his to decide. You just decide whether you want to choose him back," she said, firmly, and stepped out on her floor.


End file.
